


If You Loved Me

by killyhawk



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fix It Fic, Post Series, Shaw is an Eagles fan, very slightly canon divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 04:10:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16926255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killyhawk/pseuds/killyhawk
Summary: Someone's trying to tell Shaw something. Maybe it's that they really, really like scavenger hunts.





	1. peppermint

_It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas_ , Shaw thought to herself dryly, noting the white lights and garlands now adorning every street light and storefront in town.

If the decorations that spawned overnight weren’t enough to tip her off, the gusty winds and overcast skies above sure screamed “December” loud and clear. No snow yet, but it was coming.

Shielded from the chill by her hoodie, trench coat, and beanie combo, Shaw made her way down the sidewalk with hands tucked deep in her pockets. Normally Bear could be found trailing along ahead of her, but it was clear the dog wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of lingering outside once he’d gotten a taste of the misty morning. Shaw had mercy on him and brought him back to her temperature-regulated apartment before heading out for her morning coffee run.

The various convenience stores and boutiques were no doubt playing Christmas songs on loop already, but Shaw couldn’t hear them over the music the Machine was streaming directly into her earpiece - something modern and bluesy that she thought Shaw would like. The resonating sounds and almost gravely voice of the lead singer seemed oddly fitting for the grays, blues, and greens of the city scene around her. It was a new game of sorts the Machine liked to play: finding just the right music to set the tone.

Shaw was starting to think this AI had a more artistic mind than herself, which wasn’t exactly saying much, but it was… strange. An artistic robot.

 _Not a robot_ , she reminded herself for the upteenth time. A flash of Root holding the fountain drink she just took from her.

Whatever.

“ _Did you like that one?_ ” Root’s voice asked after the song petered out.

“Yeah, it was pretty cool,” Shaw replied under her breath. The Machine had yet to invent mind reading, so she was stuck talking to herself like a weirdo.

“ _Icelandic rock band Kaleo,_ ” she said as Shaw opened the door to the cafe. It didn’t matter that it was seven on a Wednesday - this place was still busy because Manhattan.

Normally Shaw would just brew her own coffee, but she treated herself to this place’s mind-blowing espresso about once a week. It had a nice atmosphere, too: not too pretentious, but not too bareboned either. If Shaw ever had the time and inclination to sit, she always chose Root’s favorite table: the middle table with the street view, perfect for people watching.

Shaw’s eyes glanced that way out of sheer habit before she got in line behind the other patrons. The Machine had started playing another song by the same band when an espresso machine whirred to life and drowned it out. She paused the song dutifully.

“Mocha with extra peppermint on the bar, for Shaw!”

_The fuck?_

Shaw peered incredulously at the cup at the end of the counter then looked around for somebody to claim it.

“ _No one in here is named Shaw,_ ” she said, answering the question before Sameen could ask. “ _Except… well._ ”

“The fuck,” she asked again, out loud this time, before leaving the line to go investigate. Sure enough, the paper cup had ‘Shaw’ scribbled on it in sharpie.

“Hey,” she said, calling the attention of the nearest barista. “Who ordered this?” The suitably hipster looking young man shrugged.

“I dunno, it was called in.”

“What did they sound like?”

He frowned at her, clearly puzzled by the question, but answered, “Like... you…? Is that not your order?” Feeling confused herself, Shaw defaulted to any easier emotion: frustration.

“Never mind.” Without knowing why, Shaw snatched the cup off the counter and turned to leave.

“Okay, what’s going on?” she hissed under her breath.

“ _The order was called in by a Sarah Browner from a pay phone on West 125th Street._ ”

“Sarah who? Do I know her?”

“ _No…_ ” The Machine sounded perplexed, which was never a good sign. She could picture Root’s cute little frown, clear as day, and shuddered even under her layers of clothing.

Shaw went to take a sip of the drink on reflex but stopped herself before any touched her lips.

“ _It’s okay,”_ she said. “ _I watched him make it. The drink’s clean, if probably a little sweet for your tastes._ ”

Shaw took a tentative sip and nearly gagged. Normally she ordered a straight latte. This concoction was pure sugar.

“ _At least it was free,_ ” the Machine offered in a tone that meant Root would be crinkling her nose.

Shaw forced herself to take another sip then stopped dead in her tracks, staring at the cup as it warmed her hand. It reminded her of something.

Of course. It tasted like peppermint bark (liquefied and packed with corn syrup, anyway). Shaw had discovered a couple years back that Root adored the stuff and had bought her a whole tin of it for Christmas. Root, who normally ate sparingly and like a bird, could demolish an ungodly amount of Christmas chocolates in one sitting if you let her. And Shaw secretly enjoyed how sweet it made her kisses taste. That night she had ravaged Root’s mouth until they were both out of breath, lips puffy.

Their fun had continued with some exciting new “toys” Root gifted her. Let’s just say Santa would’ve found them in a very compromising position if there had been a chimney to come down.

It was probably crazy but…

“Does that Trader Joe’s near Beacon Theater have peppermint bark yet?” Shaw asked the air, and silently filed this away under “Stupid things to ask a god” along with “Are sharks fish” and “Can dogs be allergic to peanuts.”

“ _They got their first shipment on Saturday. Why?_ ”

“No reason.”

\---------------

Shaw shouldered her way past a solicitor handing out fliers and into the brightly lit grocery store. All Trader Joe’s were virtually the same, but she knew this ones layout like the back of her hand. She had even been here with Root a handful of times on late-night booze runs or to grab a quick snack.

She remembered one time watching Root wander over to the organic braeburns that cost nearly twice as much as the regular ones.

“You know, organic doesn’t mean no pesticides,” Shaw felt the need to tell her, already on her metaphorical soapbox. “It just means they used _organic_ pesticides, which are just as toxic, and because they’re organic they’re allowed to spray a shit ton of it. It’s all a scam.”

“Nuh-uh,” Root said petulantly, but then she cocked her head and got that introspective look that meant the Machine was confirming something. She promptly pouted and drifted to the other bin where apples were eighty cents apiece.

Shaking the memory away, Shaw headed for the frozen food aisle and soon found what she was looking for directly above the premade Indian dishes: Two rows of white, red, and green tins were stocked between the pfeffernusse and Minty Mallows. Shaw stared at the shelf, unblinking, not sure what she expected to find. Feeling a bit foolish she even removed a couple tins to see what was behind and under them, but the answer was of course more peppermint bark.

“I knew this was stupid,” she thought to herself and turned to go.

“ _Wait._ ”

She stopped.

“ _The peppermint bark is supposed to cost $9.99, but they have it marked $11.99._ ”

“...Aaaand?” Shaw asked pointedly.

“ _Maybe it’s nothing, but… 1199 Park Avenue? It’s only a twelve minute drive from here. Root and you investigated a number there once - a Liam Ferrier._ ” She paused then. When she spoke next there was a definite smirk in her tone. “ _You and Root were… “all business” that day._ ”

Shaw frowned, trying to remember. Park Avenue… Oh yeah. Those were the apartments with the ugly brick facade, not far from the little Italian place Shaw liked. It was their usual breaking and entering gig, but John was predisposed so Root had volunteered to come along.

Shaw didn’t know if it was hormones or what, but she was all keyed up that day and Root had the nerve to be wearing skinny jeans and high heel boots that did fantastic things for her ass. That, and Mr. Ferrier was thoughtful enough to have furniture at _just_ the right height… The Machine did Root a solid and made it look like something was buggy with the comms (cutting out Finch) and let the women have their fun. It was very inappropriate and very, _very_ sexy.

Shaw smirked as she exited the grocery store.

“Oh yeah, I remember now. What? Do you think it’s significant?”

“ _Got something better to do?_ ”

“I wish,” Shaw sighed, just a little too earnestly.

\---------------

Shaw jaywalked across the street and gazed up at the old apartment building. There was little and less to see: just Soviet style balconies, plain grid windows, some vents... Not even a touch of graffiti.

 _What am I even doing here?_ she wondered bitterly. _I’m like the Beautiful Mind guy, trying to see patterns where there’s nothing… Next I’ll have a room full of newspaper clippings._

Since she was already here, Shaw ventured closer, wandering into the alcove that formed the main entrance. Nothing there either, except a green piece of paper that caught her eye. Shaw turned to see that someone had taped an advertisement for Quality Meats directly onto the brickwork. Curious, Shaw peeled it off and turned it over, but there was no hidden message.

Not that she… expected there to be…

“ _Okay, doesn’t that seem odd to you?_ ”

“What?”

“ _That Quality Meats, one of the best steakhouses in New York - situated across from Central Park - would be putting fliers up at all, let alone in a place like this?_ ”

“It does seem kinda weird,” Shaw agreed. You’d expect that from a small pizza joint or someone’s tarot reading business, but not a place as chic as Quality Meats.

Granted, Shaw had probably eaten everywhere there was to eat in Manhattan, but she’d been to the steakhouse on more than one occasion. The third time was with Root. Shaw had gone to town on some medium rare sirloin while Root ate a salad (a salad with chicken and cranberries and shit, but still a salad).

“Seriously, Root, this place has the best steak in town,” she had told her between mouthfuls. “You’re really gonna make me watch you eat a salad?”

“I’m just saving room for dessert, sweetie,” Root had replied, smiling suggestively and twirling her fork in the spinach leaves.

“You mean the chocolate lava cake? ‘Cause it’s to die for,” Shaw said, feigning obliviousness. Root quirked a brow.

“If you wanted something molten, Sameen, you simply have to ask.”

Shaw couldn’t roll her eyes hard enough.

\---------------

It was early enough that the restaurant wasn’t open for lunch yet. Shaw glanced at the big wooden doors and scanned the street for suspicious looking characters. There were New Yorkers going about their business, along with a homeless man and his dog on the corner, but nothing out of the ordinary.

“Okay, what am I looking for?”

“ _Someone put something on top of the menu box five minutes ago. I couldn’t make it out._ ”

Shaw walked up to where the daily menu was displayed and could clearly see a stone sitting on top of the overhang, a small piece of paper folded under it. Shaw grabbed both the stone and the note, opening the latter.

It read: _Well done. Meet me at the City Hall Station at 10 pm._

“ _City Hall… That one’s been abandoned since 1945._ ”

“Sounds like a good place to get shanked, then.” Shaw leaned against the building, dropping the stone and wagging the slip of paper between her index and middle finger. “You really don’t know who did this?”

“ _I know who planted the clues, but I always lose track of them in the shadow map. Whoever they're talking to is being very cautious._ ”

“But who would even know about all that stuff? The peppermint bark? Park Avenue? Could it be another AI?”

“ _That seems a bit far fetched, doesn’t it?_ ”

“Yeah, but…” Shaw didn’t have to say “but Root’s dead.” They were both thinking it.

The Machine sighed Root’s sigh.

“ _Look, whatever you do, just promise me you’ll tell Fusco._ ” Shaw smirked.

“I guess even Lionel’s better than no backup at all.”

She pulled out her phone and found the detective in her contacts.

_Looking into something at City Hall Station tonight. If you don’t hear from me, I want my eulogy to include the phrase “can of whoop ass.” Thx._

\---------------

Shaw swept her flashlight over the deep blue and tan glass tiling of the darkened stairwell, illuminating multiple “City Hall” signs in the process. It was quiet as death down here and just as dark. When Shaw passed under the arch that separated the stairwell from the platform she saw why; the ornate skylights were all covered with canvas.

“Little help?” she whispered, and a moment later the single brass chandelier hummed to life. She still couldn’t see farther than a hundred feet in either direction. The curved track faded into black.

Keeping to the platform, Shaw turned left and let her gun lead the way, flashlight held tactically to her wrist.

“Anything?”

“ _I can’t see down here either. No cameras._ ”

Shaw strained her ears and her eyes, but all she got was more tiles, more track, more cobwebs.

Wait.

She heard something, like... soft crackling.

Shaw slowed her pace and squinted into the dark. There was something another hundred feet out, draped in shadow but definitely disrupting the smooth lines that constituted the edge of the platform.

Silently Shaw crept forward until the outer reaches of her light brought the figure out of obscurity. They were dressed in black, sitting on the platform with legs dangling down towards the tracks. They held something in their right hand and casually took a bite. Crunch.

A name reverberated in her skull, one she couldn’t bring herself to utter.

It couldn’t be.

_Root._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought I'd have much of an interest in exploring TM and Shaw's dynamic, or in writing a fix-it fic, yet here we are! This will probably be kept pretty short because I don't have a lot of stamina when it comes to writing.
> 
> FYI, I did a bit of research and all the places mentioned are real (except the cafe, because picking a cafe would mean determining where Shaw lives and that feels weird).


	2. whiskey

The woman turned her head, shielding her eyes and squinting into the bright light. A moment later she broke out in a smile and rose to her feet, leaving the apple core abandoned on the platform. Motes of dust drifted around her as she stood in the beam, tense with excitement.

“You found me,” she said, giddy and disbelieving.

But Shaw didn’t move, didn’t speak. She was a statue if not for the widening of her eyes and the slackening of her jaw. Her hands tremored slightly, instinctively needing to check for a fresh incision, to ground herself, but she was still holding the gun in one and the flashlight in the other.

“ _Shaw? What’s going on? I’m blind here._ ”

Seconds later the lights overhead flashed on without prompting, illuminating the expanse of tunnel with its endless Guastavino arches. Shaw found the wherewithal to turn off her flashlight and stuff it in a pocket, but the gun didn’t waver. Fingers flew to the spot behind her left ear and met only smooth skin. Reassuring, but not good enough. The simulations had tricked her so easily in the past.

“Shaw?”

Shaw stared hard, looking for the tell, but the woman standing forty feet in front of her looked exactly like Root. Wavy brown hair flowed from under a black beanie. She had a pale, pretty face, and those doe eyes looking at her… she would know them anywhere.

But that was the thing about the simulations - any hints that should’ve clued her in went unnoticed until she next awoke. Even something as obvious as Root not knowing her scars, or Root’s own unblemished skin. The simulations followed dream logic, where everything made sense no matter how nonsensical.

Shaw cocked her head.

“Did you know about this?” she asked, voice flat.

“ _Know about what?_ ”

“What?”

The voices overlapped, echoing uncomfortably in Shaw’s head. She gritted her teeth and tightened her grip on the gun.

“I wasn’t talking to _you_ ,” she growled, each word measured and precise.

The woman’s eyes widened as comprehension dawned. Even from where she stood Shaw could tell they were glistening.

“Is She…?”

 _That’s right, she talks to me now,_ Shaw thought. _Because you’re dead. Because we’re all each other had._

“ _Shaw, what’s going on?_ ” The Machine spoke with an anxiousness she wasn’t used to hearing.

Before she could answer, the woman took a step forward and said, “Shaw, it’s okay. It’s me.”

“Prove it.” Shaw almost interrupted her in her haste. She raised the gun’s barrel from center mass to her temple. “Prove it. Or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes and forget any of this ever happened.” If this was the real Root, she would know that chilly, even tone never lied.

The brunette’s eyes widened further, just before her parted lips closed determinedly into a tight line.

“Okay, Sameen.” Shaw’s grip relaxed ever so slightly the instant she saw how the woman transformed in front of her, somehow taking control of the situation even at the business end of a nine millimeter. As casually as if she were alone, her fingers began unbuttoning her heavy winter coat.

Shaw watched, uncomprehending, as the woman continued to disrobe. Once the coat fell to the tile behind her, she started working on the buttons of her garnet top.

“ _God damn it, Shaw, I’m calling Fusco._ ”

“Don’t,” Shaw breathed, barely above a whisper.

She peeled the shirt off one arm, then the next, leaving her torso bare but for a black bra… one Shaw thought she recognized.

Shaw drew in a ragged breath as she took in the sight before her. Her slim form was beautiful, but it wasn’t immaculate: scars were visible even from this distance. She stepped closer now, running fingers gingerly over an old mark on her left shoulder.

“This one’s my favorite,” she said. Her eyes shone almost playfully.

Step by step she closed the distance, and with every foot gained, Shaw felt her resolve weaken.

The woman came to a stop in point blank range. The barrel was aimed at her heart but she met Shaw’s eyes, gaze steady.

Those scars. Shaw knew them. The one near her collarbone from protecting Cyrus, the one on her side from the firefight at the stock exchange, the one from Shaw herself, an assortment of long healed grazes, and a new one… dangerously close to her heart.

The wound that could’ve killed her. That should’ve killed her. _Did_ kill her.

Shaw lowered the gun and closed her eyes to fight the unexpected feelings welling up in her. When she opened them again her vision was clear.

She slowly tucked the gun under her coat and into her waistband, saying, “I should’ve shot you anyway.” Root smiled.

“Would’ve been a bit ironic, don’t you think?”

“ _Shaw, is it…?_ ”

“Yeah, it’s Root. I don’t know how, but it’s her.” The Machine was silent, but Shaw could almost hear her gaping.

Her eyes traveled from the unfamiliar scar to Root’s expectant face. She knew in that moment seeing wasn’t enough. Her right hand reached out and settled on Root’s nape, her fingers sliding into her hair and feeling the warmth, the solidness of her. She smelled vaguely of lavender… something the simulations never got right.

Root was already leaning towards her, eyes on her mouth. Shaw met her halfway and felt a burden in her lighten when she kissed Root’s soft but eager lips. Root took Shaw’s face in her hands, pulling her closer and deepening the kiss. Shaw’s left hand wandered down her back, feeling how smooth, how real, how right it was.

When Root finally eased back she smiled down at her.

“You know I love a good strip tease, but maybe we could continue this back at your place?” It was then Shaw noticed the goosebumps on her bare arms and how Root’s slender frame tremored beneath her hands. Of course. It must be freezing down here.

“Sure. Of course.” Shaw shook her head distractedly.

Root kissed her one last time before going to collect her discarded clothing.

“ _Well, this is… awkward._ ”

A smirk tugged at Shaw’s lips.

“Sorry, babe. I don’t know if I can handle two of you.”

“ _Well, there are plenty of voices in the sea,_ ” she replied, still using Root’s. “ _I just can’t believe she’s back..._ ”

“That makes two of us.”

\---------------

The walk to Shaw’s apartment only took fifteen minutes, which meant there was no need to steal a car or hail a taxi. The women made their way down the sparsely populated streets on foot - Shaw staring straight ahead and Root staring at her.

“The Machine… Is it really Her?” Shaw turned to see wide, hopeful eyes.

“Kind of Machine 2.0, but yeah, it’s definitely her.”

Root shook her head in disbelief.

“When my implant stopped working, I assumed She was dead...”

Shaw shot her a look void of sympathy.

_Yeah, know the feeling._

But she brushed that aside to say, “You know she’s been using your voice, don’t you?” A rhetorical question, of course, since apparently there was a lot Root didn’t know.

Root just stared blankly.

“The Machine. She’s been using your voice since you… disappeared. Sounds just like you. It was creepy as hell at first but I got used to it.”

Root smiled uncertainly.

“Maybe not the most sensitive move, but I’m flattered.”

Shaw remembered well how every utterance of her name in Root’s voice used to make her heart skip a beat, her breath catch, or make her turn to look for a tall woman in a leather jacket. Eventually she told the Machine to quit it, and the Machine complied, until one night her bed was just too empty, and the liquor did its job just a little too well, and all she wanted was to hear Root say her name.

“I worry about you, Sameen,” came the voice clip.

“You know what I mean,” Shaw had grumbled into the dark.

A pause, and then she heard Root say her name in a much more eager, drawn-out, pleading tone. She said it again between moans. “Oh, Sameen.” Shaw listened, chest tight, as the gasping reached a crescendo. She could hear Root catching her breath afterwards, then she spoke her name one last time, sounding so content, so full of… something she wasn’t sure she could reciprocate.

It hadn’t helped Shaw sleep like she thought it would.

\---------------

The door clicked open and Bear looked up expectantly from where he laid on the couch. Normally he settled back down after verifying it was only Shaw, but when he saw who their guest was his ears perked up and his tail went to wagging. A second later he lept from the couch and raced over to Root, nose audibly sniffing to verify what his eyes told him.

“Hey, buddy!” Root crouched down to greet the dog while narrowly avoiding any licks to the face, figuring Shaw would appreciate her efforts later.

Shaw went straight for the kitchen and fished out a bottle of whiskey from a high cupboard. She pulled out the cork top and quirked a brow at Root, who was now shedding her coat and making her way to the counter.

“Sure.” Root took a seat and crossed her arms in front of her, leaning forward in apparent exhaustion.

Shaw poured them both a few shots and slid Root’s glass over to her. She set the bottle aside and shrugged off her own coat.

“You’ll get your turn later,” Shaw mumbled. She removed the earpiece and placed it on the counter.

Root stared at it but said nothing.

“So, first things first.” Root met her eyes. “Fusco saw your body in the _morgue_.”

“A convincing fake, if you’re just looking,” she said, taking a sip of her drink.

“And the autopsy?” Fusco had (somewhat reluctantly) given her a copy when she asked. Shaw had spent that night nursing a bottle of scotch, trying to fathom how Root’s death could be reduced to mere lines of text. She touched the words, read them again and again, until everything faded to black. She probably still had it stashed somewhere.

“Fabricated.”

Shaw stared at her a long moment, then simply asked, “Why?” An accusation.

Root took a deep breath and looked at her hands, as if knowing no answer would be good enough for Shaw. She still forced herself to look into those dark eyes when she answered.

“It was the only way to get Harold to _fight_. She ran the simulations and nothing changed his mind except one of us dying. We were bound to lose without some kind of catalyst.” The look in her eyes made it clear how regrettable she thought that was, but she had accepted it. Harold would send them to their doom before he risked corrupting his Machine.

“So you faked your death? Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“She said that if you knew, it ran the risk of a fatal complication. Either you came in search of me or you were too distracted when the others needed you most.”

“Too distracted?” Shaw barked out a laugh and placed her palms on the counter, leaning forward threateningly. Her eyes were daggers. “Too _distracted_?” Sure, because it wasn’t distracting at all to think the one person who made her feel something was dead and buried in an unmarked grave.

Root smiled apologetically.

“You can’t worry about me if you think I’m dead,” she said softly. Shaw scoffed and stood back from the counter.

Without looking at her, she asked, “Why so long? The Machine won weeks ago.”

“It was the agreed upon waiting period. She didn’t know how long it would take for everything to come to pass - for the dust to settle - and She didn’t want me to stick my neck out too soon. But every simulation agreed that things would be determined one way or another within thirty days. At that point I was free to come find the survivors…”

Shaw frowned.

“So you know John’s dead?”

Root’s eyes dropped to the glass between her hands.

“I had a feeling.”

Shaw took a swig of her drink, letting the silence linger since she didn’t know what to say. So she followed one question with another.

“How did you avoid the Machine all this time?” She couldn’t believe it herself.

“Machine 2.0 didn’t know to look for me since She thought I was already dead. Besides…” Root smirked. “She taught me a lot. I know how to move unseen. It may have required a little cultural appropriation here and there, but…” Shaw cocked her head, trying to puzzle out what she meant until the words clicked.

“A burqa? Seriously?”

Root shrugged, looking rueful.

Shaw sighed, downed the rest of her whiskey, and wandered over to the couch, collapsing back into the leather cushions. Root left her glass behind and followed, placing a hand on Shaw's shoulder and pivoting around the armrest until she was standing over her. Shaw looked on passively as Root eased forward and knelt on the cushions, straddling her lap. Her fingers gravitated to Shaw’s neck. Her thumbs traveled her jawline. She cocked her head, but the smile on her lips belied the concern in her eyes.

“Do you forgive me?”

Shaw couldn’t keep the ghost of a smile off her face.

“No,” she said softly, but leaned forward and kissed her anyway.

After so long apart, Shaw felt like she was gasoline and Root was a lit match. Everything she did made her heat rise: Root’s hands on the back of her neck, her weight on top of her, her hair brushing her face, her hips right there…

Shaw’s hands wandered up Root’s thighs to her backside and pulled her closer, grinding their hips together and relishing in the way it made Root moan into the kiss. That was all the encouragement Root needed to pull back and start impatiently tugging Shaw’s shirt off. Shaw let her, then started working on all the stupid buttons that separated her from Root’s bare skin. Root didn’t make it any easier by going for her neck.

It was then Shaw noticed Bear staring at them from a mere two feet away with his big brown eyes; it was killing the mood.

Having undone Root’s top, Shaw gently pushed her back and said, “Let’s take this somewhere a little more private.” With apparent ease she pushed off the couch and stood with Root in her arms. Root couldn’t help but giggle as Shaw carried her to her bedroom, kicked the door shut, and dropped her unceremoniously on the bed. When she started taking off her bra, Root watched with hungry eyes, but then she noticed something that made her breath catch.

Shaw had a new tattoo: a stylized arrow on her left forearm. Just a shaft, arrowhead, and fletching comprised of three greater-than signs.

Shaw saw the look on her face and went still.

“What?”

“...You got my message.”

Not understanding at first, Shaw followed Root’s eyes to her forearm and the symbol etched there. She drew two fingers across the ink, clearly reflecting on the day the Machine told her what Root had wanted to say.

“You should have told me yourself,” she said, turning her attention back to Root.

Root was starting to look emotional: her eyes quivering and her mouth hanging slightly open as she propped herself up on her elbows. But her voice was surprisingly steady when she spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

Shaw was silent a moment as she tossed her bra aside and stepped closer to the edge of the bed. She braced herself with hands on either side of Root’s head, leaning forward until her face hovered close.

“I don’t want an apology,” she said, her voice low and even. “I want you here. With me. Understand?”

Root smiled, still fighting tears, and nodded once.

\---------------

It felt like mid-morning when Shaw grudgingly opened her eyes only to close them again. She rolled over and stretched out a foot, expecting to knock into Root’s long legs, but there was only cool sheet. Her eyes flew open. The other half of the bed was empty.

Shaw’s eyes widened and she immediately rolled onto her back, freeing her left hand to check the patch of skin behind her ear. No incision. No bandage.

In the same instant her nose caught the unmistakable scent of frying pork fat wafting into the bedroom. She could hear the bacon sizzling. Shaw collapsed back onto the bed and let out a sigh. It wasn’t a dream, or a simulation.

Shaw quickly got dressed and made her way to the kitchen, where she found Root in front of the stove managing a couple hot skillets. A plate heaped with pancakes and eggs was already on the counter, a bottle of syrup next to it, and it looked like the bacon was almost done.

“Winning me over with breakfast foods,” Shaw said with a smile. “Good strategy.” She sat down on the nearest stool and didn’t waste any time drowning the food in syrup.

Root winked as best she could, looking quite pleased with herself.

“I know the way to Sameen Shaw’s heart.”

Looking at her standing there - still with some bed hair, wearing one of her tank tops, a smug smile on her face - Shaw thought maybe there was some truth to it.


	3. mojito

“ _I **know** where to get a believable cadaver. I **know** how to forge an autopsy. I know about the shadow map. Why didn’t I suspect anything?_”

The Machine’s feathers sounded genuinely ruffled, in a way both like and unlike Root. She had chosen to sound a bit younger now - her tone lacking Root’s velvety quality - but it was still eerily similar at times, especially when agitation crept into her voice.

With no one to look at, Shaw stared at the clothing on display, eyes scanning a variety of jackets, tees, and sweatshirts with a bored expression.

“Maybe now that you’re acting more like a human, you’re thinking more like one, too.” Out of habit Shaw spoke carefully, under her breath, but she was beyond caring at this point if people stared. Either they’d think she owned the world’s smallest bluetooth or they’d think she was a loon. Either way it didn’t concern her. “Power of suggestion. The old you told you she was dead, so you believed her.”

The Machine let out a soft sigh.

“ _It’s just… we could’ve been together this whole time if I’d known. If I’d found a way to reach out to her._ ”

“Well, maybe you could’ve come up with a better plan than “sit tight for thirty days,” but you didn’t, so here we are.” Shaw frowned slightly and squinted at the attire in front of her as though that would help her make a decision. “Sorry, but this isn’t helping me with _my_ thing.”

It seemed appropriate to get one’s girlfriend a Christmas present after they’d miraculously come back from the dead, but Shaw was drawing blanks. She’d gotten out of the apartment on the pretense of running some errands and, well, she had wanted to drop by Levi’s anyway for some new jeans. Unfortunately it was hard to concentrate what with the harsh lighting and top forty hits thumping from every corner of the store, never mind a certain ASI chirping away in her ear.

“ _Isn’t it cheating if I help you?_ ” she asked, suddenly turning playful. “ _It’s supposed to be from_ you _, not me._ ”

Feeling obstinate, Shaw tugged at a western style top she knew Root wouldn’t be caught dead in.

“Plaid it is.”

The Machine’s sigh dropped a few octaves.

“ _Okay, I’ll give you a hint._ ” Shaw cocked her head to indicate she was listening. “ _... I think Root would like something buff, compact, and Persian._ ”

Shaw rolled her eyes and relinquished her hold on the ugly shirt.

“ _I’m serious. She just wants you,_ ” the Machine continued. “ _Something genuine. From_ you _._ ”

Shaw lowered her gaze as she processed those words. Her instinct was to take it as a threat (she wasn’t good enough for Root after all), but she doubted that’s what the Machine meant.

“ _If I can be straight with you for a minute…_ ” Shaw assumed the turn of phrase was intentional. “ _...you already lost each other once._ ” She paused, letting that thought sink in, then continued more softly, “ _Don’t mistake now for forever._ ”

Shaw’s right hand balled into a loose fist.

“What are you saying?”

“ _There’s no time like the present, Sameen._ ”

Sameen didn’t know if store bought presents could be “genuine,” but the word immediately made her think of Root, and the sincerity in her eyes when she admitted in the safe house that she felt like she finally belonged. Normally that much raw emotion would have made Shaw shy away, but looking at her then she only wanted to be drawn closer and closer until there was no Shaw, no Root, only… this.

Genuine, like each of Root’s smiles, whether sad, impertinent, or flirtatious. Genuine, like the way she cradled her head the night they were reunited after nine long months - holding her so tightly and shaking with relief.

Shaw blinked. She felt an idea forming. It was a lot better than some mass produced denim jacket, anyway.

\---------------

“I’m sorry I hurt You,” Root said.

A cursor blinked before ushering white text into a black terminal.

_In a way it was like you never left me. But I knew I couldn’t extend that same comfort to Sameen._

Not for the first time, Root felt a wave of guilt surge through her at the thought of Shaw being well and truly alone after all she had been through at the hands of Samaritan. All Shaw wanted was to protect her, and Root hadn’t let her. She knew if anyone could soldier on after a hand that cruel, it was Sameen, but that didn’t mean the losses were easy on her.

The fact was, Root hadn’t known if she would survive their scheming. The Machine couldn’t guarantee Root her life, so she had said goodbye to Sameen in her own way: letting her know in-between bouts of gunfire that reality might be tenuous, but what they represented was not. Real, not real, what did it matter? They were together and in love.

Shaw’s smile at her words said everything she hadn’t needed her to say. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, and she held onto that image through the long, lonely days to follow. That smile was like a fire in the cold.

“I know she forgives me, but I think it’ll take time to forgive myself.”

The blinking cursor seemed almost thoughtful.

_Healing always takes time, whether physical or emotional. We’re here for you._

Root breathed through her nose and looked about the room as she gathered her thoughts. Honestly, just communicating with the Machine in this simple fashion had her wanting to cry. The silence in her head had been so deafening, and when she thought it might be for good… But She was still here - maybe a younger model, but still the same thoughtful, loving force.

When Root’s eyes drifted back to the laptop she noticed the battery icon had dwindled to a mere five percent. She frowned. The laptop should’ve been charging all morning.

“Does Sameen have another power cord somewhere?” Root ventured.

_Check the hallway closet._

Root set the laptop aside and got up from the couch, walking across the carpeted hardwood to the dual doors of the closet. She slid one open to reveal a random assortment of jackets, dresses, and tops, along with some black and steel cases on the upper shelf she knew housed Shaw’s favorite guns. Cardboard boxes on the floor probably contained the miscellaneous knickknacks one acquires through life. She bent down to open the flaps of the largest one.

Laying on top of the pile was a lava lamp: its purple wax mixture all settled to one side, looking like an alien landscape in an alien snow globe.

Root’s breath caught at the sight of the familiar piece. She soon realized she recognized everything gathered in the box, from a lamp with a cylindrical pink shade to a purple shag rug folded at the bottom. A stack of fake IDs were tucked into one corner, and a few of her old outfits padded the remainder.

She traced her fingers wonderingly over the cool glass of the lava lamp, the leather shell of a jacket, the woolly tufts of the carpet. Shaw had been in her room for the first time without her… with the belief she was dead. Root could just as easily imagine Shaw mentally cataloging each item and leaving it untouched as a sort of memorial or time capsule. No one would accuse her of being the sentimental type, yet this box was undeniable proof that something had stirred her to bring this small part of Root home.

Suddenly the air felt heavier, compressing Root’s chest and constricting her throat. She found her hands yearning instead for Shaw’s skin and her every nerve crying out for the other woman, but right now there was only the quiet apartment and this sign of Shaw’s attachment.

Root picked up the lava lamp as though it were made of fine crystal and admired it a moment, remembering how the colors’ ebb and flow would lull her to sleep in that cold alcove, filling her mind until she could almost feel gray matter turning violet. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to go back there for just a moment...to when Shaw was starting to feel like a memory, and all she could do was fill her space with colors and textures. Comforts. Distractions.

Wondering if this is what the Machine had wanted her to find all along, Root carried the vessel into Shaw’s room and set it on the bedside table. The towering novelty item looked out of place next to the bare bones alarm clock and lamp. Somehow the sight struck her as comical, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

Maybe it was just the joy of making this her new home.

\---------------

The pint glass she gripped was dripping condensation onto her hand, but Shaw couldn’t bring herself to look away from the mounted flat screen for even a second. With 1:30 on the clock Darren Sproles neatly caught the punt in the Eagles’ end zone and ran for dear life, avoiding defenders until he was taken down at the thirty yard line.

“Fuck,” Shaw hissed, which Root had long ago learned meant something bad (or good) had happened. In this case it was pretty clear Shaw had hoped for a better punt return, even if thirty yards was serviceable for most drives. There was reason for her criticism: The Eagles were down by five points in the fourth quarter, which meant a touchdown now would almost guarantee a win. A field goal alone wouldn’t cut it.

The adrenaline coursing through Shaw’s veins (a product of anxiety, excitement, pride) was a welcome feeling. Close games sucked as you suffered through them, but in retrospect they were always the best ones. Everyone knew that. And Shaw’s team hadn’t done this well in a few years; if they beat the Cowboys tonight, the Eagles would clinch a playoff spot.

She had followed their progress in Root’s absence, but her boys had picked a hell of a time to get good again. Sitting in her apartment with only longnecks and Bear for company just reminded her of every time Root had used Sundays as an excuse to cuddle all afternoon, or maybe work on her laptop a few feet away and glance up whenever something interesting happened. On those days Shaw would get animated over a win, but without Root, celebrating amounted to a quick cheer before the familiar hollow feeling crept back in.

Tonight didn’t have to be like that, though. It was primetime, Root was alive, and this bar was warmer than her apartment thanks to its patrons who acted as free central heating. Eagles fans weren’t uncommon in New York, but only a couple guys seemed to be here for the game (one in a Wentz jersey and the other going incognito). Occasionally people seated behind them would cheer following a big play but it was hard to tell if they really had a horse in the race.

The offense took the field and Shaw allowed herself a swig of stout as they got into formation. While she nursed her beers, Root wasn’t even keeping track of how many mixed drinks she’d gone through (and of course every touchdown called for a shot). She could enjoy a competitive football game as much as the next Texas native, but a buzz definitely made it more interesting.

Wentz received the snap and found his guy for a seven yard gain. Shaw bit her lip, eager to see what the next play brought. It turned out to be a disappoint as the Cowboys stuffed the run. She groaned and cradled her head but forced herself to keep watching.

“Wanna know the odds?” Root knew the question would only provoke her, but that was half the fun.

“I know the odds,” Shaw growled stubbornly. She did, too, with or without the earpiece she had lent Root. The Eagles had a thirty-three percent completion rate on third downs this season: about a one in three chance they got to keep the ball.

The o-line held, allowing Wentz time to look for a receiver. Shaw forgot to breathe as he lofted the ball, much higher than expected, sending it right into the arms of an undefended Matthews. The player immediately spun and ran down the sideline, but a cornerback caught up to him and shoved him out of bounds at the ten yard line.

“Matthews!” Shaw cheered, banging a fist on the bar. Root took a satisfied sip of her mojito like she’d known all along.

It was a minor miracle for them to have made it down the field this quickly. Normally she’d be furious they took such a risk, but it was easy to forgive when the gamble paid off. Shaw took another swallow of beer - eyes never leaving the screen - before settling into her customary first and goal position: hands clasping each other in silent prayer with her nose resting on top. She was the very picture of anticipation and silent judgment.

The ball was handed off to Mathews who found a hole for a three yard gain.

“Wentz, I swear to God...” Shaw hissed.

With the hope of millions on his shoulders, their quarterback sent the ball neatly zipping between two defenders to find the hands of Celek waiting in the end zone. The response from the crowd was immediate.

Shaw and Root joined the chorus of incoherent cheering about the bar as ‘TOUCHDOWN’ flashed at the bottom of the screen and Matthews’ teammates ran up to congratulate him with shoves and smacks to the helmet. The one Cowboys fan in their midst simply shook his head. With twenty seconds remaining, the game wasn’t technically over, but Shaw felt good about these odds.

Apparently she wasn’t the only one feeling confident. During the PAT, a stout fellow slid into the empty bar seat on Root’s right, holding a cold pint in each hand.

He slid one Root’s way with a disarming smile and said, “Saw you from across the bar and thought you looked thirsty.”

Root’s arched eyebrow as she regarded him was more from amusement than anything. His pick-up line wasn’t bad, but it seemed randomly generated given the half-full drink still in front of her.

Shaw simply watched out of the corner of her eye, waiting to see how this would play out. It certainly wasn’t the first time someone had failed to notice she and Root weren’t just girlfriends in the platonic sense. Such misunderstandings usually resulted in a stammered apology, but other times it made for a good show.

“Thanks, but you should save that for someone who’s actually here for male companionship,” Root told him, nose scrunched in a blend of condescension and apology. Shaw smirked a little.

Completely thrown off his game (and likely embarrassed to boot) the guy snorted and averted eye contact, mumbling more to his chest than Root, “Tch, don’t have to be a bitch about it.”

Root still looked amused by the exchange, but Shaw leaned forward in her chair to better glare at the man and snapped, “Excuse me?”

He glowered at her and shot back, “Was I talking to you?”

In a flash Shaw was out of her seat and standing over him. The few inches she had on him then might not have been very imposing, but her shirt showed off toned biceps and her eyes threatened violence.

“You are now, and I think my friend would like an apology.”

The man turned in his seat to face her and sneered at what he saw.

“Why don’t you dykes go—”

But they never got to hear his suggestion. A loud thwack echoed through the room as Shaw’s knuckles collided with his jaw, followed by the thud of his cheek knocking into the bar. A flailing arm knocked over his glass, flooding the polished wood with amber.

Root didn’t even flinch as the man came alarmingly close to falling on her. In fact, there was a pleased glint in her eye that Shaw failed to notice. She was too busy glaring at her prone victim, daring him to get up.

A stunned silence followed as everyone turned toward the commotion. The body slumped over the bar wasn’t moving. The bartender looked on in horror, but once he gained his composure he extended a rigid finger to the exit.

“Get out! Both of you!”

“Just leaving,” Shaw muttered and snatched her jacket off the chair. She turned without looking back. “Come on, Root.”

The brunette stood, collected her coat unhurriedly, and shot a smile at the bartender who still seemed dazed by the outburst. She practically skipped as she caught up to Shaw and took her customary position on her right.

As soon as the night greeted them with a gust of air that promised snow, Shaw found Root’s weight tugging at her arm and warm breath tickling her ear.

“I need you inside me,” Root breathed.

“What?” Shaw slowed to a stop. It was hardly the first time she had heard that request, but probably the first time Root’s insistent fingers had gripped her outside of a bar in the middle of downtown.

“Right now.” Her demand was soft around the edges from one too many daiquiris, but it sent a shiver down Shaw’s spine regardless. It promised teeth and bruises and the good kind of sore.

“Shit. Okay.” Shaw’s eyes darted around, looking for a spot with any semblance of privacy. The nearest alley was empty but for some dumpsters and puddles, making it the obvious candidate. Shaw led Root into its shadows and pinned her in an alcove - her back against a locked employee door.

Root wasted no time in grabbing Shaw’s shoulders and forcing their lips together in a long, hungry kiss. It would’ve been easy to melt into, but Root didn’t get to demand fingering and take the lead. Shaw gripped the taller woman’s arms and shoved her back against the door, but not before Root had gotten a quick nip in, making Shaw hiss with the sudden pain.

She smiled through it and said, “I should take you out more often.”

Root’s eyebrows danced mischievously.

“You should bust heads in my name more often.”

“Done.” Shaw’s palm laid flat against the cold metal door, her body pinning Root’s, while her right hand deftly undid the button and zipper of Root’s jeans. She hoped her hand was still warm from the bar and dove deep, bypassing cotton panties to settle on her upper thigh. Her thumb slid under the band, stroking the skin there and relishing in the way Root was already open mouthed with eyes half-lidded. She rolled her hips in a blatant attempt to get Shaw’s finger closer to her folds, but that only made Shaw pull back and dig nails into her leg. Root gasped in approval, but the way her hands pulled at Shaw’s hips told a different story.

Truth be told, Shaw didn’t have the patience for this either. She raised herself to meet Root’s lips and let her hand slip down the front of Root’s panties, curling her index and middle finger so they pressed up against her opening. She was already so wet for her.

Shaw’s reaction to Root’s inviting body was immediate: she forced her back with the intensity of her kiss and entered her completely in one swift motion. A cry tried to escape Root’s throat but it was swallowed up by lips and tongue. Shaw’s fingers were insistent, roaming as deep as they could go. The steady pressure of Shaw’s hand teasing her clit soon had Root thrusting against her to glean every bit of sensation she could.

Shaw finally came up for air and watched Root with bright eyes as she started matching her thrust for thrust. Root visibly weakened under her gaze, as if Shaw were a cobra and she the hypnotized prey. Every time that look drove Shaw fucking crazy and made her want more than Root could give, and tonight was no different. She slipped a third finger inside and started taking Root with abandon, forgetting for a moment where they were and just wanting sweet moans ringing in her ear.

Root rolled her head back against the door, chest heaving as her breaths came out in ragged gasps. She was hardly thrusting anymore, but simply surrendered to Shaw’s ministrations and let the pressure build.

“Come for me,” Shaw demanded, just as the heel of her palm pressed against Root and her fingers curled inside her. She was rewarded with a long, wavering moan and the feel of Root’s inner muscles doing their best to crush her. Her whole body trembled with the force of her orgasm. Her boots slipped on the cement - her legs threatening to give out - but Shaw just pressed her harder against the door while fighting her own spinning head.

When Root seemed to catch her breath Shaw withdrew to admire those flushed cheeks, glazed eyes, and the lewd way her fly was completely open. She smiled darkly and Root smiled back - each exhale visible in the cold air.

Without even tending to herself Root moved forward and began tugging at Shaw’s jeans, but she grabbed her by the wrists and eased her back.

“Maybe you’re too drunk to feel it,” she said, “but it’s cold as hell out here. If I’m getting naked I’m doing it indoors.”

Root relented, but the lopsided smile on her face said she was already undressing her in her mind.

“Have it your way.”

\---------------

Shaw waited until she had heard the water running for thirty seconds before walking over to her closet, sliding the door open, and kneeling in front of its contents. She zeroed in on an opaque plastic bin and slid it closer, rummaging past the various binders and old medical books until she found the wooden box hidden at the bottom. She lifted it out with a furtive glance toward the bathroom, but she could still hear water slapping tile.

She looked inside a long moment… her face giving nothing away, but the length of her stare implying a rush of memories or indecision. She bit the inside of her cheek and put the box back, arranging everything in its place and sliding the door carefully shut again.

The lava lamp had been making its patterns all day, but now Shaw walked over to the bedside table to switch it off. She didn’t have a problem with the new addition to her decor, but she found the glow from the lamp too distracting at night. As the one turned dim, her phone lit up where it sat next to her earpiece. Blue-white text appeared that read _She’ll love it_.

Shaw rolled her eyes and climbed into bed.


	4. champagne

The snow on the ground had kept all but the most dedicated joggers out of the park that morning. They loped past wearing their ear muffs and goose down jackets, clouds of exhale trailing them like engine steam. The other demographic seemed to be dog walkers braving the cold for the sake of their four legged companions. Root and Shaw were decidedly in the latter camp, although Shaw's routine called for a morning walk with or without the company.

A paper cup warmed one hand through her glove while her right slowly lost feeling wrapped around Bear's leash. The dog's tongue lolled happily at the winter wonderland all around them. Apparently it was worth freezing his tail off to be able to see every squirrel track in the snow and every patch stained yellow by fellow bachelors.

Root took a sip of her drink, gripped snugly between both hands. Her nose was already a pretty pink from the frigid morning.

"What did you get, anyway?" Shaw asked. She was pretty sure the liquid that had gone into Root's cup was _green_. Quite frankly it looked like something that would come out of one's mouth, not go in it.

"Matcha tea latte. Wanna try?" Root held out her drink like a dare and offered to take Shaw's in exchange. The cups traded hands and despite her better judgement Shaw took a sip—only to immediately make a face and force it back Root's way.

"Tastes like chalk!"

"Chalk that's high in antioxidants."

"I swear you have the worst taste in caffeine." Shaw took her cup back, still scowling from the aftertaste. Root shrugged.

"I like my tea how I like my women..." Shaw shot her a suspicious look. Root leaned in conspiratorially. "...hot and strong." Her self-satisfied smile earned a bark of laughter.

Abruptly changing the subject, she asked, "So when are you gonna tell Lionel that 'I am risen'?"

Shaw's side-eye spoke to her inaction.

"I called him yesterday," she said. "We're meeting up in a couple days." Shaw's cup paused at her lips as she considered something. "...I guess you should come with."

"Can't wait to see him gaping like a fish." But as Root sipped her own drink the look in her eyes was distant. Logic told her Fusco would be happy she was alive—of course he would—but he was yet another friend she had deceived.

"So different from his usual expression," Shaw quipped.

Bear suddenly came to a halt at a decorative archway that crossed the path, sniffing furiously at its base and disturbing the previously untouched snow. Shaw waited as he made up his mind about whether or not to relieve himself. Releasing what would have been a shudder in a long exhale, she glanced about the park to distract herself from the rising wind. The bare trees up ahead had all been festooned with lights. Otherwise signs of Christmas were scarce here. Or so she thought.

"I'm going to choose to believe you stopped here on purpose," Root said. A suggestive note in her voice caught Shaw's attention.

"What?"

Root pointed upward.

The iron of the archway was itself wrapped in lights, and hanging at its zenith was a cheery bundle of mistletoe tied with red string.

Shaw quirked a brow at Root's expectant face.

"No way. I'd have to taste your drink again."

"I'll make it worth it," Root purred, already leaning in. Shaw considered ducking out of the way, but the truth was her drink was rapidly cooling and Root's warm mouth sounded like a welcome sensation, matcha or no. She didn't resist when Root met her lips and kept her in place with a firm hand on her shoulder. Shaw yielded to her probing tongue and almost—almost—moaned to find how hot it was. For a second she forgot she was in public and leaned into the kiss, enjoying the feel of their teeth grazing each other and the familiar contours of Root's mouth. The hint of tea didn't even taste so bad this way; it reminded her of the ocean or fresh cut grass.

Just as Root began to ease up, Shaw caught the unmistakable sound of sultry saxophone wafting in her ear, the tenor notes buzzing with sensuality...

Wait. Literally _in her ear_.

She pulled back abruptly with a growl of annoyance. Root's eyes widened at the sudden retreat.

"What?" she asked, concerned.

"The Machine...!" Shaw gestured vaguely at the hidden earpiece, though at that point the music had stopped. "She's...!" Root beamed as comprehension dawned.

"Let me guess: She taught Herself comedic timing?"

Still scowling, Shaw replied, "Something like that."

\---------------

Shaw's bedroom was a cozy retreat from the winter day: The glow of the lava lamp, the plush garnet comforter adorning the bed, and Bear dozing inches away all suggested enough warmth to make up for the thermostat being turned down. Root knit her brow at a line of code. Deleted it. Bear's ear twitched as her fingers flew across the keys, breathing life back into the program.

She stopped when Shaw poked her head in and announced, "We have reservations for dinner tonight." As though it were an afterthought she added, "Wear something nice."

Root perked up at that. Shaw had never told her what to wear before, unless it was for the practicality of a mission or more... private pursuits. She smiled mischievously.

"'Classy' nice or 'hot date' nice?"

Shaw's face gave nothing away.

She considered the question then said, "Just... pick a dress. But no high heels—you'll kill yourself." And with that she was gone.

Root exchanged a quizzical look with Bear.

"I guess I should get ready," she told him.

The taxi dropped them off harborside. Root could hear waves gently lapping at docks in the distance, barely audible over the slap of tires on slush behind them. Upon seeing the place, Root decided 'classy' was right. The interior of the restaurant was understated yet refined. Every chair was cushioned with white leather and every table sported a candle-fed lamp. These and the chandeliers overhead filled the establishment with comfortable, indirect lighting. One wall sported floor-to-ceiling windows, ensuring every diner a view of the cityscape sparkling in the water.

Shaw went straight to the host stand and told the woman there, "I have a reservation for Sameen." Nothing about her demeanor was out of the ordinary: Her expression neutral, her posture perfect, and she wasn't even looking at Root (who, comparatively, couldn't stop admiring the full cascade of hair down Sameen's back, as rare a sight as it was).

"Right this way," the hostess said, picking up two menus and leading them across the floor to a table overlooking the river. The sign reading Reserved was removed and she informed them that their server would be with them shortly.

As the two sat down Root couldn't help but ask, "So what's the occasion?" Root didn't think she had ever known Sameen to make a reservation at a restaurant, except for that time a new steak joint opened across town.

"Christmas. Samaritan lost. You're alive. Pick one."

Root took in the simple elegance of the decor and prodded, "Why this place?"

For a second she thought Shaw wouldn't answer. There seemed to be a defensiveness in the set of her shoulders. A slight narrowing of the eyes. She watched as Shaw very consciously took a deep breath through her nose and relaxed. When she spoke, the fondness Root heard surprised her.

"My parents had their first date here." A ghost of a smile touched her lips, and Root found a sincere smile spreading across her own face to see the way Shaw's eyes softened at the confession. Was there a sentimental bone in that body after all?

Root leaned forward, resting her chin on crossed hands.

"Tell me about your parents." Her request was soft and gentle, as though coaxing a frightened dog. "How did they meet?"

Sameen cocked her head, summoning what she could remember.

"My mom was studying at NYU. My dad, too, I think... He hadn't joined the marines yet... They had mutual friends and, well, my mom was drop dead gorgeous." Root quirked a brow in silent amusement. She didn't find that hard to believe at all. "Eventually he asked her out, and... he took her here." There it was again: a smile that made Shaw look almost whimsical.

"And when did little Sameen come into the world?"

"I think pretty soon after my mom graduated. My dad had joined the marines by then and they were stationed in Beaufort, South Carolina when I was born. We moved around a lot: Germany, Qatar, Georgia..."

She trailed off just in time for their waitress to come by for their order. Shaw was prepared.

"I'll take the strip steak, medium rare, and I'll sub mashed potatoes for the asparagus." Root took a second browsing the entrees before settling on pecan encrusted salmon for herself. As their menus were collected Shaw added, "Oh, and a bottle of Chassenay d'Arce, too, while you're at it."

"Coming right up," their server promised with a smile.

After the silence had lingered a moment, Root kept up her line of questioning with, "Did your mom ever remarry?" Shaw shook her head.

"She dated a few guys, but in the end I think she was content being a spinster with her nasty old cat and her house just the way she liked it. No one could hold a candle to my dad anyway... They were really happy while it lasted." She glanced out over the water. In a softer tone she added, "I never thought I'd have that for myself."

Root felt something in her chest drop at those words. It was a pleasant sensation, like the free fall on an amusement park ride.

"Did you want to?"

Shaw shrugged, still without making eye contact.

"Attempts were made, but usually they wanted something I couldn't give, so I ran, or I wasn't taking things seriously enough and _they_ ran. Eventually I realized it was a hell of a lot easier to keep things simple from the start. No muss, no fuss." She frowned, turning something over in her head.

"Well, I'm glad I haven't spooked you yet," Root ventured. Her smile showed teeth.

Sameen snorted in amusement and turned to face her.

"Like it mattered. Every time I turned around, there you were—usually in my bed."

"I didn't hear any complaints," she replied with a pretty decent wink.

The champagne came first, and the two enjoyed a break from talking to let the bubbles burn pleasantly on their tongues. Shaw hadn't known the wine would be this strong when she ordered it, but it turned out to be just what the doctor ordered. On an empty stomach she could soon feel it warming her extremities and bolstering her courage. She'd need it for later.

Root had intentionally chosen a dress Shaw liked (one of the ones rescued from the subway), and the latter made no pretense at modesty as her eyes trailed the v-neck down her chest. Root's lips were just the right shade of red and the candlelight gave her eyes an almost feral glow. For a time she could forget about everything but the woman across from her.

When their food arrived, conversation drifted to topics of a less invasive nature: How to handle Lionel and the big reveal (just tell him and get it over with), whether or not Sameen was going to give the mashed cauliflower recipe a chance (pending), and what must the neighbors think of her finally getting some (the perverts could listen in all they wanted). The champagne ran out. Food exchanged plates. It was surreal—such normalcy after the chaos of war—but for once Sameen found she could enjoy a date that didn't involve firearms.

Both women had cleared their plates when the waitress came by to collect and informed them with a smile, "Just so you ladies know, the bill has already been taken care of." Shaw's blank stare prompted her to specify, "Courtesy of a Mr. Thornhill."

Shaw rolled her eyes on impulse, but Root gave her a polite smile and said, "How sweet of him." The waitress bobbed her head in acknowledgement.

"You ladies have a good night." With that she headed for the kitchen.

"If I had known, there would've been a lot more champagne," Shaw mumbled as she got up and donned her coat. Root smirked.

"Maybe next time." When Shaw failed to respond she added, "Where to next?"

"It's a surprise." Try as she might, Shaw couldn't keep a smile from reaching her eyes at the way Root froze for a half second before settling back into studied nonchalance.

"A surprise? Seems I'm getting spoiled tonight."

"We'll see."

\---------------

"Here's good," Shaw told the driver, prompting him to pull over on the corner of a semi-residential block. She handed him a few bills and the women stepped out onto the sugar coated sidewalk. The lightest flurry of snowflakes still drifted from an obscured sky, but it didn't threaten to drench them. Root looked to Shaw.

"This way," she said, hands stuffed in her pockets, and started down the street. Halfway down the block there was a break in the iron fencing, and Shaw led them up the path and into a park dotted with trees, benches, and tables. The playground equipment was sparse, but Root could make out swings, a see-saw, and a roundabout in the shadows. No one else was here so late on a cold winter night, and the equipment laying unmoving and silent in sharp contrast to their purpose struck her as hauntingly tranquil. Like an empty church.

"Do you remember this place?" Shaw asked. Somehow being here at night had disoriented her, but now that she mentioned it, Root did remember. They had wound up here after saving a number: a single mother who got on the wrong side of some gangsters. It had been more than a year ago now, but Root envisioned the space on a warm summer day. They had nowhere to be, and something moved Root to hop on the unoccupied roundabout. Shaw had stayed on terra firma, arms folded, listening patiently to whatever Root had been rattling on about, when suddenly, without warning, she grabbed the bars nearest her and started pushing—her steps breaking into a run once she gained enough momentum. Root had to hold on or risk being flung off.

Shaw had offered no explanation for the sudden playfulness (and Root half suspected it was just a way to burn pent-up energy), but her heart fluttered all the same at this ordinary moment they were sharing... and in broad daylight. As the world was whipped into a blur, she could clearly see Shaw's steely facade morph into a determined smirk. Eventually satisfied with her work, she jumped on, too, right next to Root, and met her eyes as the roundabout spun and slowed on its axis. She wasn't going to kiss her, Root knew, but it was plain on her face all the same.

Now, with the roundabout still and cold, Sameen crossed the yard and clutched its handlebars in her bare hands. She looked as though she were holding on for dear life. Her brow furrowed as her eyes focused on the metal.

"Shaw?" Root's voice was hesitant. She wanted to go to her but something in the other woman's body language was reminiscent of a beast caught between fight and flight. So she waited.

Shaw blinked, then said, "When I worked the relevant numbers with the ISA, they taught us to go to a safe place in our minds if we were ever being tortured." She paused a moment. "I thought it was BS. There was no safe place... no way to escape the pain." Her grip on the bars tightened. Root suddenly found it hard to breathe; the air had gone thin.

"But when Samaritan had me," she continued, "and the pain got to be too bad... there was one place I could go to in my mind." She looked up then to meet Root's big doe eyes. It was not sentimentality Root saw there, but sincerity etched every line of her face as she said, "Here... with you."

Root blinked and felt a tear slip unbidden down her cheek.

Shaw looked drained from the words she had already strung together, yet she asserted, "You were my safe place... _Are_ my safe place. ... I just needed you to hear that."

Root couldn't tell if her heart was pounding in her chest or had stopped beating altogether, but either way it was bursting for this woman in front of her: this strong, beautiful, courageous, amazing woman who felt enough for her to share this secret. She just as easily could have left it unsaid, for clearly it had cost her something to be vulnerable this way.

The silence lingered, broken only by the whir of a car driving past. Root opened her mouth but soon closed it again, not knowing what to say. Shaw didn't seem to mind as she left the roundabout and walked towards her, slipping her right hand into the deep pocket of her coat. When they were once again face to face she pulled it out to reveal a ring held between her thumb and index finger: A slim gold band topped with an opal. Its natural glow was muted in the dark, but still Root could see the orange, blues, and greens dancing as they caught any trace amount of starlight.

Root's wide eyes traveled from the stone to Sameen, her mouth ajar.

"My dad gave this to my mom on their tenth anniversary," she explained. "My mom gave it to me... and I'm giving it to you."

Root let out a strangled laugh, feeling more tears well up in her eyes.

"Sameen, are you _proposing_?"

Shaw looked almost rueful as she smirked up at that expectant face.

"We're both legally dead, remember? But this—" Shaw raised the ring. "—is a symbol." Her meaning was clear. Root would have a sign to match the arrow. "That we're partners. Through this, and everything."

A silly smile broke out on Root's face. She laughed in shock again, one hand coming to rest uncertainly at her chest. Shaw reached out, took that hand in hers, and slipped the ring on her finger. It seemed a perfect fit.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, admiring the cold fire burning inside. Before Shaw could react she looked up and lunged, wrapping her in a tight hug—nuzzling her cheek against the wool of her beanie and holding her as fiercely as she did when they had been reunited. For someone with such willowy arms, Shaw decided Root was a hugger without equal. Normally she couldn't stand feeling confined, but being surrounded by Root felt so right. Her body hummed at every point of contact.

Shaw closed her eyes and knew there was no safer place to be.


End file.
